


The Subtle Beating

by Nabielka



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Canonical Rape/Non-con, Coercion, F/F, F/M, Pre-Canon, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8811571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: 'In Ios he might have dallied with a lover while a household slave attended to some task in the room, but only because a slave was so far beneath him in status as not to signify.’





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thishasnomeaning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishasnomeaning/gifts).



_but with the fine whip_  
_of her own tongue_  
_& the subtle beating_  
_of her mind_  
_against her mind._  
Erica Mann Jong, Alcestis on the Poetry Circuit

*

“Damen,” said Lady Jokaste, and even in bed her voice was cool, broken only occasionally by a slight gasp. It was not the moan from earlier, when Lykaios’ own task had begun. “The time.”

Damianos-Exalted was occupied in pressing kisses down her neck, along her collarbone. His right hand was cupping her breast, his thumb rubbing along it in irregular loops. He was still thrusting lazily into her.

Not lifting his head, he said, “Lykaios.”

Putting aside her task, she rose and made her way over to the water clock, and upon inspection, gave him his answer. 

She had been trained to please him, but there was no changing the passage of the day. Behind her, the bed creaked.

Besides, she failed him in other ways too, and as she turned back to her task, she was aware of it. They had prepared her as normal, but the summons had come earlier than was usual, and so she could still feel herself slick with the oil. 

It would not have mattered if her body were obedient enough, but no matter how good her form and how humble her obedience, it would not submit under his touch as it ought. So instead they tutted at the disgrace of having to provide thus for a female slave, but prepared her always for Damianos-Exalted, both in front and back, so that he might take his pleasure as he pleased. 

Lady Jokaste said, “You know I can’t come like this,” and Lykaios froze.

It was a shocking thing to hear said to Damianos-Exalted, for all that Lady Jokaste was a free woman of the court, of a noble family. The Prince’s pleasure came first. 

He did not seem to react to it, thrusting up into her a few times again, doing something to her breast that made her cry out, breaths faltering. 

When she spoke again, her voice was strained, but rather cold. “You think I don’t know my own body? Besides – ah! – you don’t have the time to prove me wrong.”

It was with a loud sigh that he lifted her off him and flipped her over so that her hair, a few shades darker than Lykaios’ own, splayed out over the pillows. Then he moved down the bed so that his head was bent between her legs, where the hair was a little darker still. 

Lykaios busied herself, but still her gaze kept being drawn: those long legs around Damianos-Exalted’s shoulders, and those lovely breasts, a little uneven, light brown areolae around hardened nipples. Her mouth was a little open, her uneven breaths the loudest sound in the room.

When she next dared to lift her eyes, she found herself meeting Lady Jokaste’s gaze.

She froze. She ought to have looked down immediately, for though Lady Jokaste was not so high as to merit all the prostrations necessary for the Royal House, still she was so high above Lykaios that to look at her thus breeched protocol. For Lykaios did not have the right to look upon anyone. 

Having been noticed, she ought perhaps now to go into full prostration, to submit fully in acknowledgement of her fault. But it was impossible while Damianos-Exalted was there, at any moment he might lift his head and notice, and to draw attention to herself was unthinkable.

But the problem was solved for her. Whatever Damianos-Exalted had done with his tongue, it had made Lady Jokaste cry out, her head falling back onto the pillow behind her, breaking contact. 

Lykaios pulled her eyes away and bent her head. 

There were sounds of movement on the bed, of feet on the floor, of hands on cloth. When next she dared glance up, head still bent, the breasts had been covered, and Damianos-Exalted was tying up her apodesmos at the back. 

She was standing perfectly upright, except for her head, which was tilted a little, the hair falling down on one side. She looked as though she considered it her natural right to have Damianos-Exalted perform such intimate service, one that he himself might have expected of Lykaios. He was still undressed, his pleasure interrupted. 

Then, with a swoosh of fabric, Lady Jokaste was pinning up her peplos.

Damianos-Exalted said, “You could not go. It’s not particularly important.”

Lykaios, who was watching, saw Lady Jokaste close her eyes. But she said only, “I don’t propose to keep you from your affairs.”

“Affairs of state are more important. But we could spend more time together.” He turned her around to face him and snaked an arm around her. His hand brushed down her back, coming to rest over her buttocks. “I could prove to you that you’d enjoy many things.”

She pulled away. She said, “Don’t press the subject. I don’t want it that way.”

“You’d like it,” said Damianos-Exalted. “Women enjoy it just as much as men. Look, Lykaios likes it, don’t you?”

Lykaios went red at being thus addressed. The question was unthinkable: she was there to serve and to submit, she was not a free woman who might do as she pleased. She said, in the direction of the floor, “Whatever pleases my master pleases me.”

“See?” said Damianos-Exalted, stepping closer again to Lady Jokaste. 

For her part, Lady Jokaste fixed Lykaios with a long look. There was no particular set to her expression, but she seemed sad all the same. Her eyes were blue like the sea below on a fine day, where they took slaves who did not obey their masters. 

She said only, “I have to go now,” and with a press of her hand against Damianos-Exalted’s, not a kiss as they had greeted each other earlier, she was gone. 

They were left there in the room: Damianos-Exalted and herself, and the clean floor which Lykaios knew so well. 

And the bed, similarly familiar. 

Damianos-Exalted was still hard. He said, “Come to bed.”

So she did, stepping around the table, and slipping off fabric, and laying down where Lady Jokaste had lain just a little previously. It was nothing like that, but she had seen the same ceiling, had felt the same press of Damianos-Exalted’s body against hers, had lain her head on the same pillows. 

He said, “Turn over.”

Lady Jokaste had left her scent on the pillows. Lykaios inhaled it, pressing her face down.

The position did not differ so much from regular prostration: more than anything it was the arrangement of her knees and the slant of her body that differed, but it always felt more vulnerable. It was the anticipation, those shallow breaths she took against the pillow.

The preparation would never be quite enough to ready her for the intrusion. She squeezed her eyes shut.

He took his pleasure fast and hard. He must have been near it, before, for it was not long before he came in her, pulsing heat. 

He pulled out of her and rolled out of bed, but she remained in position, waiting for orders, waiting, in the absence of them, for him to mount her again. 

The order came: get up. 

There was a wet patch on the pillow where she had bitten down. She had not been aware of it until it brushed her cheek as she moved, but at least her teeth had not broken the fabric. Half-upright now, she smoothed it with one hand, and got to her feet.

Damianos-Exalted had pulled on his chiton, had pinned it in place. He said, “Sandals.”

They were by the bed, by his feet. She knelt, and guided his feet into them, tying up the sandals the way he liked. Against the cooler air, she could feel the evidence of his pleasure still on her skin. 

Her task done, she moved backwards, still on her knees. Had she stood, she would have been as close to him as Lady Jokaste had been, and that of course was impossible. At a safer distance, she took up her own chiton and, standing, lifted it up.

He said, “Wait,” and her hands froze in the air, stiff. 

After a moment of consideration, he said, “It’s grown warmer. You might as well go without.”

His rooms were indeed warm, for the Prince must have only the best. Outside the stone stole the warm, and in the gardens the wind was piercing. 

But there was nothing for it. She said, as she always said, “As please the Prince.”and let her arms fall.

Damianos-Exalted regarded her with clear approval. 

When Lykaios had first been given to him, it had sparked a different feeling in her. How strange it had felt, to be commanded so intimately, to be handled as she had not been while in training silks, and this by a boy who could not have been more than a few moons older than her own brother, whose childish face had become a blur. But the commands of service were unrelenting: the twitch of his fingers was to be a law to her.

He came a little closer, moved to adjust her hair. It fell, parted in two, by her breasts. With a small movement of his hands, they were uncovered. She was fully uncovered. He stepped back.

His gaze was heavy on her. It caught on the gold around her neck, through her nipples, clasping her wrists. 

It was awful to be looked at so, even by her master, who had the right to do as he pleased. She felt a twitch in her knees. She should kneel, she should prostrate herself, she should not stand thus.

Instead, she found herself wondering what it would feel like to be looked at by Lady Jokaste so, to have that cool gaze on her. Her face might soften, she might smile.

Damianos-Exalted was smiling. He said, “Good girl.”

She felt herself flush, even as he stepped away to issue orders, and departed for his own duties. 

Her own in this chamber did not take long, in his absence. She made the bed, smoothed down the pillow, feeling for the phantom touch of Lady Jokaste’s skin. 

She swept her eyes around the room, but there was nothing more for her to do. She could delay no longer. With a trembling hand she picked up her discarded chiton, and drew a few long breaths to steel herself.

Outside the guards started at her approach, their gazes sweeping down her body. They were too experienced to stare, but still their surprise was evident. They themselves had not yet cast off their cloaks. 

As she passed by, she heard one say – to the other, not for her ears, but not in avoidance of them – “The Prince is a fortunate man indeed.”

His companion said, “It is his due.”

The hand that held the cloth clasped it tight, but she did not let herself react. For he had the right of it: it was service due the Prince. But still her skin prickled with the cold and her cheeks burned at the sight of the faces of the court, at the thought of coming across Lady Jokaste, and feeling those cold eyes look her over and see her, fully. 

She pushed her chin a little closer to her chest, and continued on.


End file.
